


A Dark Turn

by 00shade



Category: Holy Trinity (YouTube RPF), PewDiePie (YouTube RPF), j - Fandom
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 18:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8499736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/00shade/pseuds/00shade
Summary: What if Antisepticeye wasn't a joke?





	

Jack turned off the camera. The Anti event of halloween was over, and now it was time to return to the normalcy of doing videos before the month of October started. He wondered what would come next. A Christmas story? A new creation that the community would make? He didn’t know, and he guessed that was the beauty behind antisepticeye.

  
Still, something tugged at his stomach with unease. He almost felt like the knife was slitting his throat for real, but he couldn’t stop moving the knife no matter how hard he tried. The blood was all fake, the knife was fake, it was completely and utterly fake but he couldn’t stop thinking about how the thrill of danger filled his body with adrenaline and excitement. Maybe he would talk about it with someone later, to get it off of his chest. Hopefully Signe wouldn’t think he was completely crazy.

He spun around in his swivel chair, yawning and stretching his arms. _A game of overwatch and then bed_ , he told himself. Maybe hit up Robin if it wasn’t too late. The clock in his office read 11:32, plenty of time. He got up and went to open the door with a messy “Happy Halloween” written on it, before someone, something, grabbed him by the forearm and gripped down tightly.

 

"̴̡̭͍͓̟̟̜͔̞̲͒̍̾͗̓͝ẙ̡̧̜̖̣̲̣̖͒̇̐͒͜͜͝͡͞ȍ̷̡̡̥̱͎̻͛̑̚͞u̷̧̢̼̪̰̻̺̔͛̽̾̾͒̋̕͘ s̨̧͚̻̗͔̩͙̈́̓͂̒̚͘̕h̵̛̩̮̠̹̯̦̠̊̈͌͌́̅̕͠ò̴̧̝̱̫̪̃̐̓͆̓̚û̬̘̙̰̭̬̼̮̯̂̓͊̚l̫͎̗̩̳̣̜͙͔͒̀̕̕̕͞͠ͅḑ̸̢̲̙͖̝̘̭̊̈͆͐̃̇̃͟͞͞ h̠̞͓̺͍̎̆͛͗͛́̈̇̅a̱̙̤͚̻̿̐̆̓͆̀̇̕ͅv̧̡̡̛̪̱̪̮̍̆̐͘e̸͚͉̱̠̥̊̎̀̅̕̕͘ l̙͉̠̹̜̤͖̤̇̀̍̿̕͝į̺̰̤͈̜̇̔͒̃̒͜s̶̠̭͔̮͇͛̒͒̍̿̍̚͢t̛̬̯͖̳͙̫͖̉̀̊̈́̊ḛ̢̥̬̩̮̬̺̑̐̄̆̽̄̇͢͡͡ņ̵̻͔̩̳̜̓̅͒͢͝͝ͅe̡̨̨̧̛̱̳͋̀̐͐͜͞ͅḑ̸̳̘̥̹̭̱̓̈́̑͊͢͡ t͎̹̮̪̑̽̿̐̊̿́͘͢ò̱̠͙̟̦͋̈́̇͗ y̵̡͈̥̗̝̪̏̽́̏͑̓̒̉͘͢͞ͅͅő̷̘̜̳̬͚̩͐̂̿̊̂́̊̈́͡ų̷̛̝͕̳̣̳̪̺͌̿́̽r̶̨̛͚̘͖̝͉͒̿̄̀̈́͡͠ i̡̲͎̺̮͎͋̈̎̀̈̓͢͟͟ñ̡̲̘̥̞̟́͊̾́͂̀̐̑͠s̢̢͇̦̗̫̜̠̐͗̏̍̀͜͞͠͠͞t̘̫͎̗̭̼͌̄̎̂͒̉͊i̴͔̞̭̲͈̯͖̽͑̔̒̅̆̓̕̕͢͢n̥̮̠̥̟͈̆͑̾̑͗̉͌͘͟͞c̶̨̲̗̱̗̱̾̔͋̇̔͠ẗ̷̨͎̟͔̥̣̼̖̃̀̐͊̒̓̒͟ͅs̹̞̻̥̯̉̋͛̔̚͜͜͡.̷̢͚͇̣̥̮̇͌͛̍͆̃͞"͓̣̫͎̙̩̘̤̫̫̆̇͐̆̚͝͞͠

 

the scratchy and fickle voice belonged to what looked like him, but this Jack wasn’t Jack. This Jack was angry, smiling devilishly and had eyes blacker than an Irish winter. Jack froze; he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and was promptly thrown away from the exit and into his computer table, knocking over his 1,000 euro camera and smashing the lense.

“Y-You’re not real.” Jack groaned, his voice shaking as he began scrambling away and cutting his hands on the smashed glass scattered on the floor.. “You’re a character! A-A figment of imagination! You’re impossible!” He stuttered, his temple bleeding and leaving a stream of crimson down the side of his head. The figure about him only laughed, reaching its clawed hand out and grabbing Jack by the throat, making sure to only squeeze his windpipe enough to inflict pain, not unconsciousness.  
.  
.  
"̷͎̠̰̦̬̳͔̠͐̈̾̿͒̓̔̓̚͝Į͈̩͇̱̖̳͑͛̅͌̽͒̚͜͝f̨̤̗͉͙̲͇̪̈̔̀̈́͋̓̎ͅ ỹ̡͎̘̙͇̝̋́̒̌͜͡o̴̢̻̮͉̤̦̙̾͆̓̇͝ù̶͎̻̻̩̞̙͍̳̬̊̇̀̌ b̷̧͈͉͖̝̮̓͒̏̓͘̚͝ē̥̪̖̙̼̺͌͐̌̄͜͞ͅl̲̠͓̺̬̪̙͒̊̅̋̿͌̚͘͟͡i̶̢̻̱͙̭̺̅̓̍͂͝e̸̡̧̧̘̬̪̻̗̓̏̇͋́̽̉͜͝v̛̫̜͇̣̒͒͐͋̚͢͠ͅe̵̡͔̫͉̫̍̄̅͂͋̈̆̽͢͞ s̪̼̝̘̮̹̭̆̓̊̀̍͟o̵̜̰̫̜̠̺̙̦̝̽́̏̀͌͡ḿ͓̝̫̪̫̱̀̈̀̀̍̋̉͢͝ͅę̴̢͇̜͙̖͔͇̔̐̉̋̓͆͟ṯ̶̳̝͔̩̤̬̒̐͆̏͛͐͂ḩ̠̫̯͚̹̟̫͚̜̅̋͒̐̓̂̂͠i͍̰̻̱̫̓̓̅̈̑̋̍n̴̠̻̖̙̱̮̰̒́̍̊̿̐g̴̹̜̟͚̏̇̓͒͌̎͒ͅ ȩ̵͖̲͚̭̱̻̇̽̎̍́́͟͝n̨̡͖̪̘̝̘̯͍̪̒̇͋́̀́ȍ̵̡̢͇̤̰̱͙͆̋̉͢͝u̢̨̺͍̓̂̓͆͌̍̑̅͟͜ġ̺̱̺̹̤̘̾̏̾̄̋͡h̶̤͙͚̦͈̠͐̒̾̈̔̾̕̚͟͠ͅ,̨̛̬͙̮̹̣͇̽̌͊͐̔͢͝͝ͅ i̴̖͈̖̭̫̝̺̓͗̓̕͜͝t̫̝̱̳̭̥̘̦͍̍̌̉͗͗̿͗ c̛̖̠̻͔̞̱͔͎̦͒͐̑̚͟͠o̴͎̫̟̖͈̘̊̿̀̇̌̀͗̕͘̕͢ṁ̴̹͓͖̤͖̗̙̹́̔́̑͆͟͝e̢̛̦̬͕̺͚͛̍̊̈͆́̈́͘̕͜s̨͇͚̰̃̌̓̂̓͞ͅ t̯̱̩̤̪̘̻̪̘́͐͛̽͌̕r̡̰̹͖̣̬̊́̅͑͋̕͜ü̟̮̝̠̲͙͎̩͗̌̚͞ē̵̛̖̹̜̣͉̞͔̈̽̽̓́͘͝!̸̨̛̛̲͎̭͕͌́̇"̳̟̩̙̤̰͇̉̌͑̓̈́͘

 

It’s voice was jagged and sharp, the pitch varying every so often. Jack gasped for air, struggling to breathe as he scratched and tried to pry away the fingers of the entity before him. He gave the thing a hard kick in the chest, which loosened its grip enough to give him a brief window of escape. “S-SIGNE!” He screamed, trying to get her attention. “SIG-” he stopped, looking down to see the tip of a large butcher knife protruding out of his chest. His mouth was filled with the taste of iron, and his eyes kept watering and blurring. The last thing that he saw was himself, looming over him with an air of power and confidence, black smoke billowing from the eye sockets. Not Jack gave a shrill cackle, holding Jack’s chin with his fingertips and forcing him to look up at him.

 

ş̸̪̖͉͓͕͂̈̓͒̃́̅̔͌͘͢͢͢͜a̷͎̖̘͙̞̽̽̽͂̀͑̕y̵̡̢̞̻̙̘̼̳̆̌̃̈̊̊̿̇͟ͅ g̨̨̗̭͍̞͇͆̓̀̅̚̕͜ơ̻͙̺̱̙̠͉̙͕̪̂́͊͘̕o̭̳͇̓͗͌̅́̈́͘͢͜͞d̲̖̞̳̠̿̈́̆̓̀̈̌b̛̫̝̙̼̜̟̽͌̅͒̾̏̅̕y͉̪̗͉͊̆͗̋̆̈͗̚͘͟͢͝ẹ͈̮̥͖̹̲̉̌̓̌̐̎̌̔.̧̢̪̥̝̱͒̔͐̂̽̎̀͌͜͟͠

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So I posted this as a quick dump of an idea shortly after the Anti event, and I'm stunned by how many people genuinely liked this. I'm a little saddened that this seemed to grab more traction than Sabbat in Boston, but I can't control what the people want. So thank you to everyone who read this, it means a lot to me and encourages me to keep writing!


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